


draw and quarter

by achievingelysium



Series: deprive (a hunger games au) [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead-centric, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Friendship, Gen, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, i am not sorry. i have the power, the au no one and everyone wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievingelysium/pseuds/achievingelysium
Summary: In District Twelve, no one volunteers.When Aizawa Shouta’s name is called, no one says a word. He stands there for a moment, feeling all the world slow around him, and then he straightens his shoulders and walks to his death.He will die fighting. At the very least, Shouta can promise that.Shouta's name is drawn for the Hunger Games, alongside Shirakumo Oboro. No one from their district has ever won.
Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shirakumo Oboro
Series: deprive (a hunger games au) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852126
Comments: 40
Kudos: 302
Collections: Catlady5001’s Favorite Fanfics, The Best of Aizawa





	draw and quarter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, of course, to the brilliant No Writing Academia Discord, who spent the past day or so yelling at me while I furiously wrote this. 
> 
> This one's for you.

i.

In District Twelve, no one volunteers. 

When Aizawa Shouta’s name is called, no one says a word. He stands there for a moment, feeling all the world slow around him, and then he straightens his shoulders and walks to his death. 

He will die fighting. At the very least, Shouta can promise that. 

In District Twelve, no one wins. 

Something in Shouta shifts when he ascends the steps of the Reaping stage and sees the dull eyes of a district already mourning his death. He sees his name, so small on a piece of curled paper, almost insignificant. His shadow stretches across worn wood like it’s trying to run away from him. 

He lifts his chin despite the noose around his neck and decides he is walking to his victory. 

ii.

The other tribute from District Twelve is Shirakumo Oboro. They’re both sixteen. 

On the train ride to the Capitol, they sit alone at a table piled with more food than Shouta has seen in his entire life. They have no mentor. 

“So,” Shirakumo says. “Aizawa. We went to the same school together, right?”

He doesn’t look unhappy to be here. He doesn’t look how Shouta feels—angry and tense, the way an animal does caught in a snare. Shirakumo smiles. 

A smile can be dangerous. 

And in the Hunger Games, so can friendship. 

Shouta says nothing. He eats until the twisting in his stomach is disguised by the nausea of rich foods he has no name for. Then he palms a knife, tucking it into his sleeve, and finds somewhere to be alone. 

A few hours later, after Shouta has puked his guts out, after he’s driven the point of his knife into the soft back of a chair and imagined the soft flesh of a human throat, after he’s watched the last of his district disappear—Oboro is still smiling, and whistling a tune Shouta has never heard before. 

iii.

“We don’t have to be friends,” Shirakumo says, voice low. They stand, waiting, as chariot after chariot lines up and a row of tributes begins to parade in front of a cheering crowd. “But—can we at least pretend to be allies?” 

“Why?” 

Shirakumo tilts his head to the side. He has a draw to him that Shouta lacks, a sort of natural magnetism. His blue eyes gleam. 

“Everyone is out for blood,” Shirakumo replies, nodding towards the ring as District Ten is called. “Isn’t there power in being different?”

District Eleven. 

“Up you go,” Majima tells them. They step into the chariot together.

Shouta thinks about what Shirakumo said. He’s spent his life being different; he’s spent years molding himself in the shape of survival. The first rule of hunting is to become something else than you are.

District Twelve. 

The chariot wheels into the light. Shirakumo’s costume catches the camera’s attention as blue smoke billows back and around him, rendering him in a different shape than he is. Shouta sees himself on a screen in a black so deep it glitters, red-orange flame writhing and vengeful from the darkness. 

They are not coals. They have become a roaring fire. 

Shouta reaches over and takes Shirakumo’s hand, and holds it out. Fire and smoke slip between their interlocked fingers. 

Something sparks.

iv.

Shouta spends the training days quiet. Shirakumo spends the training days loud. 

He knows his way around a length of rope. He ties knot after knot and undoes them just as quickly. He makes snares. His hands burn, but Shouta is grateful for the calluses. They serve as a reminder. 

He can handle a knife. He throws one after the other, carefully eyeing the girl from District Four. He learns by watching the way she snaps her wrist forward, and his knives hit true—a few marks out from the center. Right where he wants them. 

Shirakumo, on the other hand, flits from station to station. His skills leave something to be desired, but Shouta notices the way he angles his body, the friendly open approach, the way Shirakumo disarms and snares people just by looking at them. It’s another kind of weapon, just as sharp. 

“Watch out for the boy from Seven,” Shirakumo will murmur as they pass each other. “Careful of Two. They’d slit your throat as soon as they can get away with it.” 

_Who wouldn’t?_ Shouta thinks, but he slips from shadow to shadow, and heeds Shirakumo’s warnings, and turns himself from hunter to prey. 

v.

Shirakumo finds him on the rooftop. 

He’s carrying two delicate glasses of champagne. Shouta’s never had champagne—only alcohol of the stronger, less legal variety—and when Shouta tries it, he decides he doesn’t like it. He drinks it anyway. 

The distant lights of the Capitol are warm and soft up here. Shouta can almost believe it is a utopia, and not the snarling monster chained underneath. 

Shirakumo sits next to him and presses their legs together. Shouta, bubbles bursting on his tongue, doesn’t move away. 

“Do you think we’ll make it out?” Shirakumo asks. He’s looking away, towards the glittering buildings. 

“I don’t know,” Shouta responds. 

He drinks more of the awful champagne. His tongue is loose enough to answer, not loose enough to be truthful. 

Shouta doesn’t say, _only one of us can live._ Shouta doesn’t say, _I’ll kill you so they can’t._ Shouta doesn’t say, _it would hurt more if I didn’t._

“You could.” 

He doesn’t know why he says, “So could you.” 

Shirakumo laughs. He drinks. 

“I’ve been counting down the days,” he admits. “I’m not going to last, Aizawa. But you could—you could be the first.” 

“Stop,” Shouta snaps. “Stop saying that.” 

Shirakumo holds up his glass. Shouta lifts his, and the glasses clink when they knock together. 

“It’s okay,” Shirakumo says after he drains the rest of his champagne. “I know. It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here, though. It’s okay if- if I die. I just don’t want to spend these days alone.” 

Shouta leans back on his hands and studies Shirakumo. His words seem to cut right between Shouta’s ribs. It’s a faster kill. 

“Aren’t you lonely?” Shirakumo asks. 

Shouta looks at him. “Very.” 

The last of the barrier between them seems to crack, then gives way. Shouta picks up his champagne glass and breaks it against the side of the building. 

“I don’t want to be alone, either,” he says. 

Winning, suddenly, seems lonely too. 

_Only one of us. I’ll kill you. It would hurt._

vi.

The Gamemakers aren’t watching Shouta. 

Shouta takes a knife, and a length of rope; and he makes them. 

vii. 

He rewatches the broadcast of the tribute interviews. Every tribute charms, flashing smiles and glimmering scraps of fabric. 

Shouta is mostly quiet. He remembers what it felt like, to sit in that chair with the lights shining so brilliantly down. The words died in his throat. 

He does say, “I’ll find a way to win.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I have to.” 

The Shouta in the recording looks right into the camera. He is quiet, and confident. He is unexpected. He’s told it’s a good thing. 

“Then good luck, Aizawa Shouta,” Caesar says, and beams. “District Twelve!”

Shirakumo is next. He is friendly. He makes a joke that has the entire crowd laughing as he steps onto stage. Watching him, Shouta thinks, is a bit like staring at the sun—on the verge of too bright, leaving an afterimage when he closes his eyes. 

He’s everything that Shouta is not. Personable, charming. 

“I’m just here to have a good time,” Shirakumo says, leaning in like he’s telling a secret. “Shouta, though. I’d bet money on him.” 

“Really?”

Shirakumo looks directly into the camera, too. Shouta realizes what he hadn’t a day ago, too caught up in the bustle of the Capitol. He realizes this message is for him. 

“He can make it back,” Shirakumo says. Light reflects in his eyes. “He can take me home. Someone has to.” 

A rooftop, a shattered glass. Shirakumo turns to Shouta and says, _take care of my family, will you. Tell them thank you. Bury what’s left of me in the meadow, where the mockingjays sing._

And for the first time, Shouta stares at Shirakumo and instead of a body, begins to imagine him with a laurel wreath. 

viii. 

He steps into a glass elevator and light filters in from above. The platform moves, up and up, and Shouta emerges into the arena. For some reason, when Shouta presses his fingers to the inside of his wrist, he finds his heartbeat steady. He takes a deep breath. 

In the center of the half-ring of tributes is a cornucopia. Supplies. Weapons. The bait for a bloodbath. 

Around them, the arena is made of dry, cracked earth. Rock rises in strange, haunting shapes. Shouta searches for hiding places, for hints of green. He eyes his fellow tributes. _Two will slit your throat._

 _Ten,_ counts the mechanical voice. 

One platform over, Shirakumo shifts and catches Shouta’s eye. He flicks his fingers. Shouta doesn’t understand what the gesture means. 

_Nine, eight, seven._

Shouta closes his eyes and thinks about home, the tall rustling grasses, the comfort of trees, market day, a rabbit caught in a snare. 

He will be there soon, one way or another. 

_Six, five, four._

He opens his eyes and thinks about Shirakumo’s meadow. A small clearing—Shouta can recite the steps to find it, now. The yellow and blue flowers that grow there are Shirakumo’s favorite. 

_Three, two, one._

Shouta puts District Twelve behind him and runs. There’s a backpack. He takes it. There’s a girl, smaller than him. He takes the bloody knife from between her eyes. 

She will haunt him later. For now, he is the ghost—disappearing in a graveyard. 

ix.

“The first thing you’ll do when we’re out of here,” Oboro says. His features are smudges of grey in the dark. 

“Sleep.” Shouta takes a careful sip of the water they’re sharing. “You?” 

“You’re so predictable,” Oboro grumbles. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll walk through the streets, and I’ll sing.” 

“Sing,” Shouta repeats. He hasn’t heard music in a long time. “Why… why sing?” 

Oboro blows out a breath. He scuffs at the ground in a way that Shouta has learned means he’s thinking. 

“If I sing, I’m alive,” Oboro replies. “If there’s song, there’s hope.” 

Shouta suddenly remembers his mother singing in the kitchen. He doesn’t remember the words, but he remembers the melody, and her high, clear voice. For most of his childhood memories, he can pinpoint the sound of her voice drifting through the house. A sense of calm buzzes in his chest. 

She stopped singing when he turned twelve—the year of his first Reaping. 

“Huh,” Shouta says, and considers it. “Maybe I’ll join you.” 

Oboro smiles. This smile is for him, a secret, something that is human and whole. 

They sit together in the dark, hiding. At night it’s easier to pretend. At night it’s easier to say things without fearing consequences. At night Shouta can dream of a story that ends happily. 

There are three tributes left. Soon there will be two. 

There are two victors. There are two friends, falling asleep in warm grass as birdsong sounds overheard. There are two people. They are not alone. 

His mouth is dry, and bitter. 

So Shouta says, “Sing, then.” 

Oboro blinks. “Huh?” 

“You’re alive,” Shouta says roughly. “There’s hope, isn’t there?”

Oboro tips his head back and laughs, his throat a pale sliver of light, unslit. He laughs quietly with the caution of someone who knows there might be someone else listening, but laughs with the knowledge that there is someone listening. 

“Teach me something.” 

“Alright,” Oboro says, and hums a few notes before he begins. “ _In darkness, in light, we come and we go…_ ”

Is anyone out there, tying a thread of hope around their throats?

x.

An explosion shakes the ground. Shouta can’t move. 

The rock face above them crumbles, and Shouta sees a figure darting away at the top. 

“Shouta!” 

For a brief moment the feeling of a hand against his back. For a brief moment the sun blotted out by falling rock. For a brief moment—for a brief moment— 

It’s only a moment. 

The cannon fires as dust billows in clouds around him. Shouta tears at the rocks until his hands bleed, and the screaming goes silent. 

xi.

Shouta has to make it. He has to.

He limps faster and faster, gripping his knife tightly. _Keep moving._ Behind him, loud and rumbling against the dry earth are the footsteps of a pack of mutts. 

As Shouta stumbles into the open, he’s forced up a narrow ridge as the sound of scrabbling claws follows. In the distance he sees the tribute from Two, a silver spear in his hands. 

And his first glimpse of what’s been chasing them. 

Massive creatures with dripping maws and pointed teeth. Strange things with too-long legs and dark, matted fur. He makes the mistake of looking back as one of the mutts snaps at his heels, and a set of blue eyes stares back. 

His heart stops beating. 

“No—” 

A spear lances through the ground next to Shouta, and he rolls to the side. Hungry, human eyes watch the tributes as Shouta turns, knife in hand. The mutts draw back slightly.

Shouta doesn’t.

xii. 

In District Twelve, no one volunteers. 

When Aizawa Shouta’s name is called, he steps forward, a wreath of gold in his hair. He stands there, caught in a dizzying array of sound as people shout his name. They are not cheering. They are still mourning—for the boy who didn’t come back, and for the boy who did. 

Oboro didn’t die fighting. He died saving someone. 

In District Twelve, one tribute wins. 

Something in Shouta is broken now, irreparable. He never wants to hold a knife the way he did again. He never wants to see another kid bleed the way he did again. Next year the entirety of the world will be watching. 

He sees a familiar face mouth his name, almost insignificant in the crowd; but she has the same color eyes as Oboro does, and the same slant to her nose. Oboro’s mother. Shouta apologizes to her. She thanks him in return and presses a yellow flower into his hands. 

A day passes. Shouta wanders an empty, too-large house. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

A month passes, and Shouta is still walking unsure in a place he used to call home. He drinks champagne alone. He lies on the ground, and feels the earth cradle him; and wonders when it will swallow him. His ears haven’t stopped ringing. 

Spring slips into summer. 

One day Shouta blinks, and feels like he’s waking up from a long nightmare. The sun finally reaches him, and warms his face. 

His feet carry him somewhere he’s never been before, until the grass reaches his knees and he’s wading in an ocean of yellow and blue. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it go. 

Shouta lays down the piece of Oboro he’s been carrying in the empty cavity next to his lungs. A memory. 

He opens his mouth. His voice is hoarse and unsteady, but he sings. 

The birds sing back.

**Author's Note:**

> yea this au seized me what about it
> 
> this is technically a prequel to the real hunger games au tossing midoriya & bakugou into the arena so watch out. for that. and then the quarter quell fic. 
> 
> you WILL note there are twelve parts to this fic. intentional of course.
> 
> guys it's been years i unlocked so many memories writing this fic lmao. uhhhhh please kudos and leave a comment if u like i sacrificed my naptime for this 
> 
> Tumblr: [@queenangst](http://queenangst.tumblr.com)  
> Discord: [Annie's Angst Association](http://discord.gg/m53PtuD)


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